


Kontinuum

by Lakritzwolf



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Angst, Brutality, Cruelty, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Humiliation, Pre-Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Prison, Pritchard's time in prison, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf
Summary: A single mistake is all it takes to get Frank "Nucl3arsnake" Pritchard a five year sentence.And he doesn't know if he even wants to survive, because he is afraid of what might be left of him if he does.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Read the tags and warnings. And if you find something that you feel needs tagging, please let me know.**
> 
> * * *
> 
> The title comes from the music I listened to while I wrote this, [Kontinuum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkXeOMSwdZQ), by Klaus Schulze

One mistake is all it takes sometimes. And if you are walking along the edge, a single second of inattention is enough to send you tumbling. If the edge is high enough, you’ll never recover after you hit the ground. 

Add hubris to the mix, and… well. 

Frank tries to tell himself that they had three really good years, that it was bound to happen at one point, but in truth? In truth he was angry. So, so angry. 

“We’re in!” Spider had yelled. “Snake, we’re in!”

And had slapped Frank’s back. Had pulled his face around to kiss him. And Frank had made the biggest mistake of his life. 

He had kissed back. 

By the time they parted, a few seconds later, a big, bold **INTRUDER ALERT** was flashing on his screen, bright red, the light of an oncoming train about to run them over. 

Cursing, swearing, hasty retreats and deleting of protocols, it was all in vain. It was too late.

And now here he is. Staring at a large iron gate, high walls, topped with electrified barbed wire. A large watchtower overlooking the whole complex. Guards, armed and looking dangerously bored. 

Frank has experience with cops. Assholes, the lot of them. Arrogant, sadistic bullies. But the men looking at him, appraising him as if he’s cattle at an auction, they’re even worse than the ones he met on streets.

Frank looks down, at his feet, the dust that covers the tips of his shoes. It’s safer than to watch the world disappear behind a giant rolling gate. He can’t look at his hands. They’re cuffed behind his back. 

Next to him, Jordan. Spider. He has not looked at Frank since the cops had dragged them out of the van that brought them here. Does he feel guilt? Guilty about celebrating a few seconds too early? 

Frank certainly does. Although, guilt is maybe the wrong word. He knows, maybe it’s unfair to put all the blame on Spider’s shoulders, but if it hadn’t been for that kiss, he would have kept his eyes on the screen. That he kissed back was his own fault. It shouldn’t have happened. 

But it did.

The gate falls shut. 

And then they are separated. 

“Walsh!” one of the guards to the right calls, and they exchange one last, desperate look before Jordan is grabbed by the cuffs at his back, and gets dragged through a door.

“Pritchard!”

His experience with cops has taught him one thing: If you can’t run, keep your head down. So he does. He keeps his head down, looks at no one, and steps where they tell him to. He enters a room where three other guards are waiting for him. 

One of them is wearing latex gloves. 

Frank wants to die. 

His hair is hanging down his face in slightly greasy strands by now; he wasn’t allowed to use a shower these last few days. He’s pretty sure that it probably counts as mistreatment of prisoners, but who gives a shit? They’re prisoners. Criminals. They don’t deserve better. 

One of the guard grabs a handful of Frank’s hair to lift it out of the way. To say he wasn’t gentle would be an understatement. Frank’s head jerks around, and he looks at the guard’s face. Thick cheeks, beady eyes. Cruelty written in every line of that ugly, middle-aged face. 

“What kind of colour is that?” 

“Venom green,” Frank replies, because he was asked a question, and if he just does as he’s told, answers when he is asked, maybe he won’t meet the full force of the guards’ power trip. 

“I can see that it’s green, you punk.” He drops the hair again. “It’s against regulations. You’ll be seeing the barber after this. He’ll take care of that.”

Frank grits his teeth, closes his eyes. He knows that ‘taking care of’ does not mean ‘bleach the green out’. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

He is told to undress, so he does. They don’t tell him to stop, so he ends up naked in a room with four other men who all stare at him. Not with lust. With greed. Greedy for them to hurt him, humiliate him, break him. 

“A snake, huh?” One stands behind him, pokes the tattoo on Frank’s back. “No wonder you like green so much.”

“Not much of a snake there, though,” another guard says while unashamedly ogling Frank’s groin. “That one’s hung like a gnat.”

Shame burns in his face, in his eyes, rises in a wave of bitter acid up his throat. His hands curl into fists, involuntarily, his nails digging into his palms. 

Now the one with the latex gloves steps forward, looking bored, but his eyes show the same gleam of cruelty like all the others’. He grabs Frank’s chin and pries his mouth open, then rummages around under his tongue as if Frank might have hidden a bag of snow there, or a gun. Then he steps around him, and pats Frank on the small of his back. 

“Cavity check, son,” he says. “Spread those pretty legs for me.”

Frank wants to heave. He wants to scream. He wants to kick his ugly face into a bloody ruin. Three pairs of eyes are on him. Vultures, waiting for the prey to fall, so they can gorge themselves on its entrails, not caring if it’s still twitching or not. 

Frank bends over, and spreads his legs. 

Finger probe around between his cheeks, and one finger is shoved unceremoniously up his ass, without warning. Frank grits his teeth so hard it hurts. 

“Yeah, seems all clear to me,” the examiner says and pulls the latex glove off. “Can get dressed again. 

The guard who has brought him here unlocks the cuffs, and the other two draw what Frank thinks are stun guns, or tasers. One wrong move, and he will hit the ground.

Dressed, that means not the clothes he had come in. Dressed means a white, ugly pair of shorts, a wife-beater, white socks, an orange jumpsuit, and a pair of ugly, squishy sneakers. Nothing fits. Everything is too large, too baggy, and it makes him feel even smaller. His own clothes are packed, together with his things. Phone, wallet, bracelet. He has to remove the two studs from his ear, and they too are dropped into the small white plastic bag. It’s sealed, and then put into a box together with his clothes. 

Then he’s being cuffed again, and is led through another locked iron door, and down a long, high corridor with cold neon light. One of the lamps flickers, winking at him, mocking him. 

_Welcome, Frank._  
_It’s your own fault, Frank._  
_Shouldn’t have get distracted, Frank._  
_You’re a loser, Frank._

Another door, and he looks across a large hall, two stories high, galleries lining the upper story’s walls. The cells. Two men each, he sees as he passes a few. A bunk bed, and a toilet bowl, all in plain sight. There’s not even the slightest shred of dignity left for these men. 

He’s one of them now.

Everything inside him recoils. And around him, everyone stares. 

Not only are the guards stalking this place in search for the weak. The inmates look at him with the mindless cruelty of bored predators, gauging if he’s a toy or food, or maybe both. 

“In here.”

Frank is shoved through a door. A chair, a barber chair, is in the center of the room. There isn’t a mirror. 

Another man steps into the room from a side door. “Is that the other one?”

Frank’s guard nods and pushes Frank towards the chair.

He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to do this. This isn’t him, this isn’t him anymore. But that was the point, isn’t it? To strip everything away from him. Everything personal, everything human. He’s a thing here. A creature, at best. But a human? No.

“Christ, who allowed that colour?” 

The guard leans against the door with an ugly smirk. “Take care of that, Walther.”

Frank closes his eyes as the barber drapes a white plastic cape around his shoulders. Not even scissors. Just the buzz of clippers. 

The barber doesn’t waste any time. In a way, Frank is glad, because he doesn’t want to have this drag on forever. He wants to have this over with. But another part of him is screaming. 

The buzzing of the clippers roars in his ears, the scratch that starts at his temple and runs over his head feels like a bite. A few strands of hair fall, brush his ear, his neck. The barber wipes them away with a hand. Another line, back to front, starting at his forehead. More strands of hair fall down his face, tickle his nose and cheeks, the back of his neck. The clippers roar in his ears, his hair just keeps falling and falling… how can he have so much of it?

Some of the strands stick to his cheek. 

Christ, he’s crying. He’s crying like a baby. It’s just hair. It’s just fucking hair. It’s nothing. It will grow back. It will grow back, and he can dye it any colour he wants, and he will never think about this again. 

When finally, the clippers fall silent, the barber wipes more hair off his shoulders, runs his hand across the almost bare skin of Frank’s head. His head is too light. The back of his neck, too cold. 

The barber removes the cape, shakes it out, and a few more green strands float to the ground. 

“All done.” The barber thrusts out a broom at Frank. “Here. Trash bin is over there.”

Frank takes the broom. 

Green, long strands of hair cover the ground around the barber’s chair. Like someone’s dog was having a field day with a Halloween wig. His jaw hurts, his teeth hurt, his knuckles hurt from clenching his fists so hard. He starts sweeping his hair together. Not, that’s not true, is it? It’s not his hair anymore. It’s just a pile of trash. 

After he had cleared up the mess his own hair made, Frank is being led out of the room without another word. He is glad there isn’t a mirror. He doesn’t want to look at himself. He has no idea if he would recognise himself if he did. 

He also wonders if he ever will, again. 

They stripped everything away from him that was Nucl3arsnake. Everything that was Frank Pritchard. He doesn’t know who or what is left of him now. He has no desire to find out.

When Frank is introduced to his cellmate, he would have laughed if he weren’t so tired already. He’s a burly men in his fifties, sleeves rolled up to reveal cheap and ugly home-made tattoos covering his arms. 

They get food, soon after. Frank guesses it might be soup with potatoes, but it’s hard to tell. It’s all boiled almost into a mush. The bread is stale. 

His cellmate, Roger, grabs Frank’s slice of bread and bites into it. Looks at Frank as he chews, daring Frank to raise his voice. 

Go ahead, those glowing blue eyes say. Go ahead, complain, and make my day. 

Frank looks into his, for want of better word, stew, and picks up his spoon. His bowl vanishes before he can dip the spoon in. Frank takes a deep breath, drops his spoon with a sigh. He knocks back the cup of water, and leaves the table. Climbs up into the top bunk. 

Curls up into a ball, buries his face in his hands. He will not cry. 

He will not cry. 

He has no idea how he will survive five years in this place. But tears will not make one fuck of a difference. They will only make it worse. 

Then it’s evening roll call, and three guards patrol the lines of prisoners. Frank recognises the one who escorted him in, the one who had taken him to the barber, and then to his cell. The two others might be one of those who had done the examination. 

“Yeah, he cleans up nice.” He’s right, then. “Walther really did a good job with that atrocity.”

“Yeah,” the other replies, the one who had been there. “And he took it like a champ.” He pats Frank’s bare head with a coarse laugh. “Only one single little tear.”

They pass, and Frank feels himself burn in shame, choke on disgust. And drown in fear. He has never been in a place like this, but he knows enough that no weakness will go by unnoticed. 

He feels several pairs of eyes on him. 

The sharks are smelling blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter contains rape/non-con**

The cell is cold, and Frank doesn’t have a blanket. Roger has two. 

Frank knows better than to ask. 

He tries to distract himself from freezing and being hungry with thinking about Spider. About Jonas. About the taste and smell of his skin, about the sound he makes when he comes. But that makes the cold misery only worse. If only he hadn’t let himself get distracted by that kiss, they wouldn’t be in this mess. But he had and here he is. 

Three years. They had three years, three years of building a lair and living the best life, three years of the thrill and the sweet taste of victory. And one single kiss had shattered it all. 

Frank can’t even remember why they thought it would be a good idea to try and fork off some cash from Sarif Industries. The thrill of the hunt, probably. Knowing he could. And yes, he could. But getting in doesn’t mean you won. 

Frank tries to arrange himself a little less uncomfortable on the hard, lumpy mattress, and thinks back to the day he met Jonas, aka At0mic Sp1der, on a forum the name of which he has forgotten by now. They cracked jokes, then made passes, and when someone else told them to take their aggressive flirting into meatspace they both had said why not? Had taken their conversation to private chats. Exchanged pictures in silly poses, demanded by the other, to make sure they are who they said they are. To think that the first picture of Frank that Jonas has ever seen was with Frank sticking his right thumb into his left nostril. 

It almost makes him smile.

They had met, then, in Chicago, which was pretty much the exact middle between their locations. Had met at the airport, had gone for a drink. And had ended in bed right after a few hours. 

Frank had left New Hampshire without looking back. Had gone to Chicago, as well as Jonas who had lived in some armpit of a town out in the middle of Wyoming. They had built a life together. They clicked on so many levels. And now they know each other so well, Frank can imagine the way Jonas would curl up freezing. Hopefully, his cellmate isn't as colossal an asshole as Roger. But thinking of Jonas makes it all only worse again, and he presses the back of his hand against his eyes, bites as hard as he can into the palm of the other. 

Thinking about Jonas did nothing but make him feel even more alone. They hadn’t spent a single night apart since moving into that shithole apartment in Chicago three years ago. 

The sting in his hand is eventually worse than the one in his eyes and he dares to let go. But Frank doesn’t know what is safe to think about. Everything from before hurts like fuck, everything in the here and now is one big, blank stare of horror. That leaves the future, of course. A future when he is out of here, can grow out his hair again, and… and then what?

He dropped out of college to go into blackhat work, and all he has now is a measly high school degree and a criminal record. 

Roger is snoring. A guard is walking up and down the gallery in front of the cell row. Frank’s heartbeat is thundering in his ears, too fast, too hard, too loud. Not loud enough to drown out the sounds around him that remind him he isn’t a human anymore.

* * *

Breakfast is a grey-ish paste that might be porridge, and looks as appealing as it smells. But Frank hasn’t eaten anything since sometime around noon two days prior, and he can’t remember ever having been this hungry. He grabs the bowl and his spoon and he gobbles the disgusting gruel down as fast as he can in case Roger decides he needs another helping. 

His stomach hurts afterwards, and he has a hard time keeping the revolting stuff down. 

That’s another problem, of course. 

Frank is close to pissing himself by now. The toilet is right there, next to the bunk bed, two steps of distance between the seat and Roger’s bunk. But if he doesn’t do something about this very soon, he gives the other inmates and the guards something else to humiliate him with. And it’s not as if he has a choice. 

He takes a piss and washes his hands with lots of water because there isn’t any soap, unsurprisingly, and hopes he will choke on a piece of vomit during the day, before he actually has to take a dump right in front of Roger’s nose. One of the guards would probably check in too, just to make it worse. It’s how these guys tick, getting off on putting others down. 

Another roll call, and then a part of the inmates are herded into a separate wing of the building. Apparently, this week Frank is on laundry duty. A few hours pass without anything happening, he just tries to focus on loading and unloading the washers and dryers, and wishes he had listened to his mother when she was trying to teach him how to fold clothes and fitted sheets. 

Lunch is a sorry affair of some sort of dry, crumbly, meatloaf, potatoes and overcooked Brussel sprouts. Frank hates Brussels with a passion, but it’s the only thing he gets. 

And after that he has to bite the bullet, because he is not doing himself a favour if he goes and shits his pants. 

Roger eyes him, then shrugs. “I don’t give a shit,” he says, and laughs. An ugly, grating sound, the sound of someone who tears the wings off a dragonfly to watch it crawl around in the dirt. 

As soon as he has it over with Frank crawls back into his bunk and stares at the ceiling. 

Not even here for a full day, and he's already contemplating how he can blow his lights out. The thought of having to spend five whole fucking years like this makes his bones turn to ice.

One single fucking kiss.

* * *

A guard walks by as he Frank stares at his empty dinner plate.

“Ey, Pritchard. Settling in?”

Frank looks up. The name tag says Smith. The guy who took him to the barber. “Does he always steal his cellmate’s food?” Frank asks, thrusting out his chin at Roger.

Smith looks at him, at Roger, and back at Frank. “No,” he says. Drawls. “Only if he’s a pushover like you.”

Frank looks back at his plate. Thinks. Thinks harder. 

What does he have to lose?

Lights out comes, and Frank grabs the second blanket from Roger’s bunk and scuttles up into his own. 

Roger grabs his leg and pulls Frank down again, blanket at all, and doesn’t even let Frank’s feet hits the ground before he buries a fist right into Frank’s abdomen. Dropped like a sack Frank faceplants onto the cell floor, wind knocked out of him and acid rising in his throat.

“Nice try, pushover.” 

It takes Frank a while before he can sit up, and he drags himself up into his bunk. Five fucking years of this, for one single kiss. 

Again, Frank is allowed to eat what goes for breakfast in this place. He assumes it’s because he would collapse at one point if he isn’t allowed to eat anything, and that might get Roger into trouble. Although Frank wouldn’t count on that. 

It stopped raining and apparently that means they’re allowed to go outside. Into a yard that is a football field-sized square of concrete surrounded by twenty feet high walls topped with razor-wire. 

He sees Jonas there for the first time since they were separated at the gates. And it takes him longer than he likes, longer than he can stand, to recognise him. Without his electric-blue hair and the nose ring he is a stranger. Just a guy. Just Walsh. Not Jonas. Not At0mic Sp1der. Just like Frank is Pritchard here, if anything. He wonders if Nukl3arsnake will survive this. If Frank will survive this. 

He doesn't want to imagine what might be left of him in five years. 

Jonas spots him, and it takes him a long moment as well. Frank seems as much a stranger to him as Jonas was to Frank. The guy next to Jonas, not much older but a lot more burly, whispers something into Jonas’ ear. Jonas shakes his head, but then the other guy grabs his shoulders, turns him bodily around, and walks him away. 

Now Frank looks around to glance at the other inmates, and spots Roger talking to three other guys of the same type. They look as if they have to draw straws to see who’s allowed to use the braincell today.

Yes, and Frank’s brilliant mind and blackhat skills are going to be of so much use in here. 

Frank spends an hour leaning against a wall wishing for a smoke, looking at nothing and trying not to think, until the guards round them up again. Another roll call, but this time the guards are accompanied by a large trolley. And each inmate is handed a set of underwear, socks, and a new jumpsuit. 

“It’s bath time,” Roger says with a grin that makes Frank regret the day he was born. 

They’re herded into the showers, a large tiled cavern without stalls of course, in groups of twenty. Frank is the last one to move, to start undressing, and he’s the last one to leave the locker room. There aren’t as many eyes on him as he feared, but there are a lot more eyes on him than he hoped for. At least with his hair gone, this should be over quick. 

He hasn’t even stepped under the spray of the last free shower when someone steps in his way. One of Roger’s charming friends. 

“Do you mind?” Frank says, crossing his arms. 

_Don’t be a pushover. Maybe it’s with wild dogs. Do not show fear._

But the thing is with dogs, they can still smell it.

“Mind what,” the bastard growls. 

“Letting me get into that shower.”

“Oh, little princess wants to get clean?”

“That is kind of the point of a shower, isn’t it?” Now all eyes are on him. 

“I help you get clean.” A large, burly hand closes around Frank’s arm and pulls. “But to get clean, you must be dirty first, ey?”

“Fuck off!” Frank tears himself away, but panic and horror recoil in his stomach. This isn't happening. This isn’t happening. 

This is happening. This is the very reason for all the prison shower jokes. 

Roger’s friend grabs both of Frank’s arms now and pulls, hard. Brought off balance Frank stumbles forward, and has no chance to catch himself when he is hurled into the tiled floor. He lands with a searing pain in his right hip and elbow, cold, slippery tiles under his cheek. 

And then another pair of hands grab his shoulders, and Frank panics. He snarls and he screams and he writhes and he kicks and he is sure he lands a blow or two, but that makes it only worse. His head is slammed into the tiles again, and a red smear taints the water, flows in thread-thin ribbons towards the nearest drain. In the two seconds that Frank is stunned from the pain and the impact, he is being thrown onto his stomach. Hands hold him down at the shoulders. Another pair of hands pull up his hips. 

He is breached without preamble, without preparation, without even a dash of soap, and he screams. A hand the size of half his face is slapped over his mouth. 

“You struggle more, you hurt more, princess.” The voice is rough, low, too close to his ear. “Your choice.”

Frank doesn’t believe in mercy any more, but he does stop struggling. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, and it doesn’t make the shame and the fear and the horror any better. His screams are turned into muffled whines by the hand pressed onto his face. 

And finally, a groan, a shudder, and he is tossed to the floor like a used, broken toy. A not-quite-violent kick pushes most of his body under the spray of the nearest shower. Frank takes one single breath before he hurls the contents of his stomach onto the cracked, yellowish tiles.

Around him, the conversations pick up again. Men talking, the hissing of water, the thundering of his heart, it’s all one big screaming cacophony. His whole body hurts. And he can’t even describe anymore what he feels. Violated. Used. Humiliated. Broken. He is shaking, his arms and legs too weak to support him. As if every bone in his body has been broken.

He manages to drag himself up into a sitting position, his back falling against the wall, his body now fully under the running water of the shower. A shape of black takes on the form of a guard leaning into the doorway between the locker room and the shower. He isn't only grinning. He is pitching a tent.

Frank wants to puke again, but he doesn’t have the strength. He needs all his willpower to keep moving, to dress with his weak, shaky arms, to walk back to his cell on his weak, shaky legs.

Roger lets him have his whole dinner that evening, but Frank isn’t sure that makes it worse, somehow. He takes one look at it and heaves, shakes his head, and crawls back into his bunk. He is sure it isn’t pity. He doesn’t want to think about that they need him not on the verge of collapsing if they want to play that game again. 

Frank spends his third night in jail curled up with his back to the wall, listening to his heartbeat painfully throbbing in places he doesn't want to think about. He can’t stop shaking. The cold has crawled into the marrow of his bones and he feels as if he’ll never be warm again.

Morning comes, roll call comes, and Frank isn’t able to uncurl, to move, he feels cold and his whole body hurts and everyone can just fuck off. Maybe they’ll shoot him if he doesn’t comply. He doesn’t care.

Two guards drag him out of the bunk, and after pelting him with their batons drag him between them across the gallery and towards another door. They throw him into the room, slam the door shut. 

It’s pitch black in here. And even colder than his cell. 

Frank crawls until he finds a corner to curl up in. 

How can you get yourself killed if you’re not allowed near windows, ropes, or sharp blades?

Maybe he could try provoking those two gorillas who had fucked him. Provoke them until they beat him into a pulp. With luck, they’d break his skull and it would be over. 

Frank is back in his cell at evening roll call, without food, and still without a blanket, and his underwear sticky with blood. 

He makes it through three more days, three more nights, in which nothing happens. There’s laundry duty and dishwasher duty and time in the yard. He has two more days until Sunday. Until shower time. 

He sees Jonas twice more, during their time outside. He has apparently been a lot luckier with his cellmate; he is hanging around with the guy Frank had seen him with that first time, and three of his buddies. By the look of it Jonas manages to sleep more than Frank, at least. Which isn’t an achievement, really, but Frank has been worried. Jonas also doesn’t look as if they’re stealing his food. Which is good as well. He also has people to hang out with, which makes Frank burn with jealousy. Because he is alone. 

He tries to make eye contact, but Jonas’ companion sees that and positions himself to stand between them. Jonas doesn’t see the look Frank is trying to give him. Doesn’t see Frank’s gaunt face, the waxy skin. Frank saw himself in the mirror above the sink this morning. He still wishes he hadn’t. 

Jonas doesn’t see him, and Frank sits down on the concrete floor, too tired to stand. 

“Looks like you’re the right height, princess.”

Frank looks up, squints against the bright sunlight outlining the thug who had fucked him in the shower.

“Fuck off,” Frank mutters, drops his head. 

“I think you’re getting this wrong, mate.” The guy drops into a crouch, and Frank’s face is grabbed in that huge, meaty hand as if in a vice. “You are not giving the orders here. I do. And I say, open your mouth and take my cock like the good little slut that you are.”

Roger and the third of the horrifying trio are joining them now, and a few others drift away, but only to give them space. This is a show they’re going to enjoy. Just like the guards on the walls. The majority of the men in the courtyard don't seem to care what happens in that corner. 

Frank looks across the courtyard, into the direction of Jonas and his friends. Buddies. Pals. Whatever. He could help him. That guy has say, that much is clear from what little street knowledge Frank has. Roger and his buddies are avoiding the guy Jonas is hanging out with. He could make this stop. 

“Jonas?”

Jones freezes, and turns around. Sees him being held by arms torn behind his back by one man, another standing right in front of him unzipping his suit. 

“Jonas…”

And Jonas looks at him, at his buddy, and back at Frank. His face is blank. 

“Jonas?” A cold, meat-fingered hand grabs the back of Frank’s neck. Jonas looks back and forth between Frank and his mates, and the other guy asks Jonas a question. Then Jonas shakes his head. 

And turns away. 

“Jonas!” 

Jonas doesn’t look back. 

“JONAS!”

“And if you bite me, I’ll knock out all your shiny white teeth, princess.”

Frank doesn’t care about the tears anymore. 

Three years. Three years of being in everything together, being glued together at the hip, being as thick as thieves, side by side on the hunt, fucking each other’s brains out every night. Three years. And Jonas turned away from him. He could have helped, he could have made this stop. 

And he didn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

Each day lasts a year in this place, but the week passes in a blur. Before Frank knows it it’s shower day again. He doesn’t know what to do. It’s not as if he can run, or refuse to undress and stay in the locker room. The guards would love having to undress him with physical force and throw him into the shower before enjoying the show. 

He still has no idea how he can survive this. He only knows this one thing: If he manages to get out of here with his sanity intact, which he doubts at this point, he will never again tell someone to ‘get fucked’.

He undresses, and he gets into the shower, and he is so, so afraid. Not so much of the humiliation because everything in this place is meant to humiliate him. And it is appalling how fast he had gotten used to it, to a certain degree. 

No, what he fears is the loss of control, and the pain. 

He knows, on some level, that giving in and being submissive, to stop fighting and just give in, might take the thrill out of the act for the other guys. 

He can’t. He is unable to just let it happen, but again, fighting gets him a bloody nose that hurts like a motherfucker. At least this time he manages to land a kick where it really hurts, but he doesn’t dare to allow himself the slightest trace of satisfaction. 

As he is shoved under the shower Frank asks himself why he still tries to cling to the last shreds of the illusion of dignity, of his humanity. He is a thing in this place. There is no point in even trying to pretend otherwise.

But he can’t. Something deep inside keeps rearing its head, snarls at the thought of being broken and leashed and chained somewhere to do someone else’s bidding. 

And fighting back achieves nothing anyway. Nothing apart from getting himself thrown into the cold isolation cell again after Carl – he had heard the others cheer him on – complained to the guards that Frank had kicked him. He ends up back in his cell with roll call but without dinner, and he still has no blanket. 

_You are not an animal_ , the voice in the back of his head whispers. 

Frank begins to wish it would shut the fuck up. There is no reason to resist, to fight. If you treat people like animals long enough, they will become like animals. He should drop his head, finally give in, be the omega of this pack and spread his legs and take it. Maybe it would hurt less. 

_Don’t give them the satisfaction of breaking you_ , the voice in the back of his head whispers. 

Frank wonders if it isn’t too late already, because he can begin to feel the cracks. They hurt far less than he would have been able to imagine. And that’s the scariest part of it all.

* * *

He sees Jonas again in the courtyard, but Jonas turns away before Frank can make eye contact again. 

_We’re in this together_ , Jonas told him as they had been cuffed and marched into the courtroom. 

_We’ll get through this_ , Jonas said, as they were shoved into the van that brought them here. 

And now he’s pretending as if he’s never seen Frank before at all. 

It hurts so much Frank can’t put it into words. 

_I love you, Frank. I want you so much. Please don’t ever leave me._

Was it all a lie? Or did it become a lie, here in this place? 

Frank knows he should kneel and take it. That there is no point, absolutely no sense in trying to resist. 

But he can’t. It takes two men to hold him down, and if he hadn’t been so sure Carl would make good on his threat about knocking out his teeth, he would have tried to bite his dick off. 

He manages to keep himself together until they reach the cell because he doesn’t want to puke anywhere where he has to mop it up himself, but as soon as the toilet is within reach he barfs so hard it hurts. 

Two more days until weekend, not that it makes a difference. The only difference it makes is that Sunday is shower time. 

Frank can’t even look at his food that evening and shoves his plate across the table to Roger without a word. He crawls into his bunk and falls asleep from sheer exhaustion.

* * *

_Just accept it. Just let them have you. Just accept you’re nothing in this place_ , one voice tells him as he undresses.

_Don’t let them break you_ , another says. 

Carl approaches him with that sick, predatory smile of his. 

_Just bend your neck and take it_.

_Don’t let them break you._

Frank should know better, and he doesn’t know what makes him say it. 

“Fuck off.”

“Wrong, again, princess.”

“Fuck off!” Frank yells at him. He feels it, somewhere in the region of his breastbone, a paralysing terror that he will not allow to take over. “Get your dirty hands off me, you asshole!”

“Maybe I really do have to knock those teeth out of your mouth,” Carl says, and with a speed that belies his burly statue he clamps his hand around Frank’s throat and slams him into the wall. Frank sees stars for a moment, but something scary, animalistic rears his head behind his eyes. But maybe, maybe it’s only the last dregs of despair. 

“You’re just using me because you could never get a fuck otherwise,” he presses out with the little air he has. “No woman would touch you with a ten foot pole.”

His head is slammed into the wall again. The cornered animal bares its teeth. 

“How can you get it up when you have to use my ass instead of a soft cushy pussy?”

Carl knees him in the balls, and the only reason Frank doesn’t double over is the fact Carl is still pressing him against the wall. 

“What?” he growls. “Do you want me to beat you into a pulp?”

“That’s... exactly what I want,” Frank wheezes. “Beat me into a bloody pulp even my own… my own mother won’t… recognise… And maybe… maybe I’m lucky... and won’t... survive it.”

He hears a few mutters over the gushing in his ears. He sees Carl's eyes go blank with fury.

Frank closes his eyes and waits for the first blow.

The first blow comes in the form of a fist against his temple, but then he is dropped to the ground like a rag doll. Still stunned, he only realises at the edge of his awareness that Carl kneels behind him and grabs his hips. 

Maybe he should try and pretend this body isn’t his. Imagine himself somewhere else.

It doesn’t work.

Almost unable to walk, Frank takes forever to dress again, half of his body stiff and numb with pain. 

“You really shouldn’t provoke other inmates like this,” the guard at the door to the locker room says.

“That asshole raped me!” Frank knows he should keep his fucking mouth shut, but he still hasn’t learned his lesson, apparently.

“Can’t rape a someone who doesn’t have a pussy,” the guard says. “And a little fuck has never done any harm, as long as you try to enjoy it.”

Frank has no idea what to say to it, and he doesn’t resist, doesn’t have it in him, when they throw him into the isolation cell again for ‘provocative behaviour’.

* * *

“Stop working Carl into a lather like that,” Roger tells him as Frank crawls into his bunk. 

“Still hoping he’ll beat me to death,” Frank mutters in reply.

“I wouldn’t count on it, you stupid cunt. He knows what he’s doing. He can hurt you real bad without doing enough damage for that.”

That was doubtlessly true. 

Frank was stupid. He was so stupid. Because now Carl is even angrier, will even be more aggressive, and his big ugly mouth has gotten Frank in more trouble than it’s worth.

* * *

Frank isn’t surprised that Carl corners him next time they’re in the yard. And stupid idiot that he is, he’s still unable not to resist with every fibre of his being. 

This time he does bite. 

And he gets a faceplant against the concrete wall for that. He can feel his lip split, hears and feels a sickening crunching noise as his nose explodes with pain, and through the haze of agony he suddenly feels something small and hard on his tongue. When Carl lets him go he spits it out and yes, that’s a tooth. One of his canines, broken off at the root. 

“I’ll knock them out one by one if you do that again,” Carl snarls into his ear. “You got a lot of small body parts you don’t need to be our little fuck toy, princess. I can tear those pretty little balls right off with one hand. And I’ll make you choke on them until you swallow.”

When Carl is finally done with him Frank sinks against the wall, hand still curled tightly around the tooth, and tries to focus on the pain in his nose, in his mouth, on the taste of blood instead of the bitter salt of Carl’s jizz on his tongue. 

His eyes somehow manage to focus again, and as his world slowly stops being blurry he can see Jonas look at him across the courtyard. He’s staring at Frank out of wide eyes, lips parted. 

Then he gets a slap on the shoulder, and he spins around and turns away. 

“You asshole,” Frank mutters, the words slightly slurred due to the pain in his jaw and nose and the split, swollen lip. “You goddamn fucking asshole.”

* * *

“You’re an idiot,” Roger tells him that night.

“Thanks for the reminder.” Frank closes his eyes. Lying on his back hurts slightly less than trying to lie on his side.

“I’d watch that mouth of yours,” Roger growls back. “Carl’s gonna hurt you more if you don’t.”

“I already hurt like fuck everywhere,” Frank replies without opening his eyes. 

“You should just take it,” Roger says. “What’s the point of making him angry? Just be a good little cock slut, and it’ll hurt less.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be a cock slut.”

“Princess, nobody, no one in this shithole, gives one single fuck about what you want or not, or what you want to be or not. You better bend over and take it.” He farts. “How long did you get anyway?”

“Five years.”

Roger snorts. “Keep this up and you’re not gonna make it through one.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Really?” The bunk creaks as Roger adjusts his position. “Do you really want to die in this place?”

Frank has no reply. Does he? Does he really want to die in this place, without ever seeing anything else again than these walls, this cell, and the ugly faces of burly guys trying to fuck him? Is Carl’s ugly mug really the last thing he wants to see in his life?

His eyes are burning again, and he can feel the tears itch against his lids. Lying on his back like this they pool in his eye sockets, but if he doesn’t let them flow down his face, if he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend they aren’t there.

He must have made a sound because under him, Roger emits another derisive snort. “Sniveling pansy,” he mutters. 

Frank doesn’t reply. He keeps concentrating on keeping his tears where they belong. Where they don’t give anyone any more reason to humiliate him. What’s the point, anyway? What difference does it make if he bawls like a baby?

Sweet fuck all. 

No, he does not want to die in this fucking place. As appealing as the thought is to die right here and now, at the hand of Carl or anyone else, he doesn’t want to die in this place. He wants to walk out of here one day, hear the gate fall shut behind him, knowing that he survived. 

The little snarling animal will have to be muzzled for the time being. Muzzled, and put on a leash. Locked away somewhere. But he will feed it, and he will keep it alive, and one day, one day, he can let it run free again. 

The thought doesn’t make him sleep any better. Next Sunday will see if he really can do that.

* * *

Sunday comes, and Frank makes himself think of a thermos cup of coffee, of wind in his hair as he drinks it while looking across blue, sun-dappled water at the skyline of San Francisco. 

He doubts that his parents have taken care of any of his things, so once he is out of here, he will have nothing but the clothes on his back and his phone and his wallet. Maybe he’ll have to go back to New Hampshire for a while, bear his parents nagging and shouting at him. 

But he will find a job somehow, he will buy himself a new bike, and he will go to San Francisco and throw a little stone into the water of the Golden Gate.

_I can do this. I can do this. I can do this._ It’s a mantra, a prayer to himself. _I can do this._

Carl grins at him as he enters the shower room. 

_I can do this._

Frank shrugs, turns around, and goes down on all fours. 

Everyone in the room falls silent. 

It takes a lot longer than Frank expects for Carl to kneel behind him. The tile floor is cold and hard under his knees and elbows, and it hurts, it still hurts, and he buries his face in his folded forearms to muffle the sounds of pain that he cannot suppress. It takes Carl a lot longer to finish. He really didn’t seem to enjoy it as much. 

_I can do this._

Carl finally pulls out, pushes Frank away, and gives him a kick in the kidneys for good measure. 

Frank is pissing blood for two days, but the little animal is lying down, growling through the muzzle, but no longer straining against the leash. Biding its time. 

He will get out of here. And after that, he will monitor the ongoing in this place, and if Carl ever gets out, he will fuck him over so thoroughly that he’ll end up in the joint again within the first year. 

Frank still hurts, he still freezes every night, and he’s still hungry most of the time. 

He keeps thinking of San Francisco.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s Wednesday. Four more days until shower time. 

He hasn’t had any dick shoved down his throat yet. Frank counts it as a win. He has known from the very beginning that sex is only a minor part of this game, that this is about power. That Carl was out to break him. Maybe he thinks he has. Now that Frank has completely stopped resisting it’s clearly not fun anymore, and now he will wait for the next victim to be thrown at his feet. 

Jonas doesn’t look at him anymore. The anger has cooled down, but hasn’t vanished. It never will. 

_We’re in this together, Snake._

Frank shakes his head. There’s a bitter mirth in that thought. They’re both together, yes, in this place. But they’re not together. They’ll never be again. Frank will never touch him again, never kiss him again. 

It surprises him how much that thought still hurts, despite everything. 

At least he’s learned his lesson now. If you want it done right, do it yourself. Don’t rely on someone else when so much depends on it. If he can still be Nucl3arsnake when he’s out of here, he’s never going to work with anyone ever again. He’ll never let anyone get this close again because then, if push ever comes to shove again, he’ll have only himself to take care of. No risk of someone fucking him over, or fucking things up for him. 

Frank doesn’t eye the knifes anymore when he’s on dish-washing duty. They’re tin anyway and you couldn’t cut custard with them, let alone flesh. He doesn’t eye the detergents anymore when he’s on cleaning duty. Drinking bleach has not been an idea he was able to entertain for long. 

He does nothing of that sort anymore, because he is not going to die in this fucking place. 

He still gets too little food, too little sleep. His bruises are healing, slowly, and the swelling around his nose is slowly receding. But upon closer inspection his nose is a little crooked, if he looks at it from a certain angle. He can only shrug. He has worse scars than broken nose to carry out of this place. 

Saturday rolls around, without any dicks being shoved into his face. He hasn’t been thrown into the isolation cell either. Carl had punched him into the face only once, in the courtyard, when Frank had offered to blow him – apparently he still can’t control his brain-to-mouth processor.

He can almost open that eye completely again that Saturday morning out in the yard. No, he is not going to provoke Carl again. He is keeping his foul mouth shut and his head down. His nose isn’t throbbing in pain anymore, and he has no desire to re-visit that particular experience.

Carl is giving him this evil, calculating look again, and maybe he will have to suck dick now after all, but then the courtyard door opens and a guard sticks his head out. 

“Ey, Pritchard!” 

Frank looks up. 

“You got a visitor!”

“Aw, is mommy coming to bring you some cookies?” he hears behind him as he heads for the door. 

The truth is, he has no idea who might be visiting, but he’s sure it’s not one of his parents who have not made a secret of how much they disapprove of his life choices since he was fourteen. And Frank may have made the conscious decision to go into coding, and to hack into the neighbours’ Alexa to order five hundred dollars worth of sex toys, but he sure as fuck had not made the conscious decision to be gay. 

He’s being cuffed and led down a corridor he hasn’t seen before, and another door opens into a room that’s parted by a large glass wall. There’s a table and a chair on either side of the wall. Old-fashioned looking phones, with cord and receivers, hang on each side of the glass. A guard stands behind him as Frank sits in one of the plastic chairs.

Opposite him sits a middle aged man wearing a suit that looks more expensive than his parents’ whole house is worth, and he has an augmented arm with gold embossing that Frank is sure is not varnish. He has no idea who this guy is, and what a man like him wants from someone like Frank.

The other man musters him, and his eyes widen. He takes in Frank’s appearance, and Frank knows he looks abysmal by now, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken, his face bruised with a comparatively fresh shiner, a still somewhat swollen, slightly crooked nose, and the almost-healed remnant of a split lip. His head shaved, his shoulders drooping, and he doesn’t know what the look in his eyes does but the man on the other side of the glass looks honestly troubled. Then he picks up the phone receiver, and Frank does the same on his side. It’s not quite as easy with his wrists cuffed together, and he has to prop both elbows onto the table to hold it to his ear.

“Frank Pritchard?” the other man asks, his voice slightly tinny through the phone. “Nuclear snake?”

Frank tries to square his shoulders, but what difference does it make? Whoever this is, if he’s visiting him in prison then he knows why he’s here.

“Yeah.” Frank meets the other man’s eyes. “Have we met?”

“Not really.” One of the corners of the other man’s mouth twitches. “Not personally, at least. But I guess you heard the name Sarif before.”

It takes a moment before it clicks. “Sarif?” Frank feels his face do something complicated. “David Sarif?”

“The very same.” Sarif gives Frank another once-over.

“And what do you want?” Frank asks, probably sharper than he should. “Come to gloat at the loser who dared to snap at your heels?”

“There’s no need to put on that kind of tone, son.”

Frank takes a deep breath, because, of course there isn’t. It’s his own fault he’s in here, not Sarif’s.

“No, I didn’t come to gloat.” One artificial finger taps a soundless rhythm on the table. “I just wanted to speak to the man who managed to get through defenses I spent half a fortune on to be impenetrable.”

Frank can only shrug. “Nothing is,” he replies. “There’s always some sort of loophole. The point is to never let your guard down. Because…” he emits a bitter, mirthless chuckle, “see what happens if you do.”

Sarif hums thoughtfully and nods. 

Frank is beginning to get twitchy, because as much as he doesn’t want to be back in the charming company of the other inmates, he wishes Sarif would get to the point. 

“This place really did a number on you, hm?” Sarif’s face and voice are mild. 

“This isn’t a tourist holiday resort,” Frank gives back, trying to keep the acid out of his voice as much as he can, with meagre success. “And I don’t know how I’m going to manage five years, but I am not going to die in this place.”

“Well,” Sarif says slowly, “maybe you don’t have to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank’s heart is racing, and he’s angry, so angry at himself for allowing himself to feel a sliver of hope.

“See, here’s the thing,” Sarif says. “I thought we were safe behind that firewall, but we were not. We’ve been safe for years, and suddenly someone comes along and cracks defenses that have been in place for half a decade without a single breach. And we need to know how to prevent it from happening again.”

“So you expect me to give your cybersecurity team a crash course in Firewall 101 through a phone receiver in here?” Frank bites the inside of his cheek. Hard.

“I got a better idea,” Sarif replies and leans forward a little. “I need someone on the walls, a captain of the guards, if you will. And who better to man the defenses than the one who knows its weakest points?”

Frank’s mind goes completely blank. After his brain reboots, and he has no idea how long that takes, he stares at Sarif, knowing he has to look like an idiot. 

“That’s…” Frank clears his throat, swallows dryly, and shrugs. “That’s going to be five long years waiting for me to get out of here again.”

“See, here’s the thing,” Sarif says, and a benevolent smile appears on his face. Frank isn’t quite sure if he hates it or is scared of it. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Frank stomach clenches. “I can’t just walk out of here, you know?”

“I know.” Sarif’s smile is still in place. “But one can always lodge an appeal.”

Frank opens his mouth, but has no idea what to reply. Sarif has to know how stupid that idea is? The man’s not an idiot. 

“You’re confused, I get it. I’ve brought my best lawyer, he can explain it to you.”

Said lawyer, Frank realises now, must be the man in a grey suit who’s been standing behind Sarif all the time. Frank thought he is a bodyguard, but now he steps forward and pulls up another chair. He takes the receiver from Sarif and gives Frank a nod. 

“Mr Pritchard.” Frank knows that smile. It’s the last thing a fish sees after rounding the corner of the reef where the sharks are waiting. “Let me explain this.”

And maybe it’s an explanation, but that technobabble, that weird collection of technical terms and legal terms, doesn’t make one fuck of sense. Probably as much sense as it would make to the lawyer if Frank tried to explain how to code an animated emoji.

Eventually the monologue ends, but Frank remains none the wiser. The lawyer sees that, and closes his cardboard file.

“The point I am making, Mr Pritchard, is that we can get you out of here.”

The rest of what he says drowns out in the thundering of Frank’s heartbeat in his ears. 

It’s not possible. This isn’t happening. He’s dreaming. Carl has knocked him out, and any moment he’s going to wake up with a colossal headache and his face plastered to dirty concrete.

There’s only one thought that makes it out.

“And who’s gonna pay for your service? Not my parents, can’t see that happening, and I sure as… as hell can’t either.”

Sarif takes the receiver, and the lawyer pushes the chair aside again. 

“Look, son, I said I want you on board, and I mean it. We need someone with your talent, with your skill, and I don’t see the point of letting you rot in here and let your brilliant mind go to waste. I have negotiated the bailment. Then we’ll take this back to court. My PA has sorted out a contract, ready for you to sign.” And he leans forward, and that benevolent smile manages to be mild and fatherly and utterly predatory at the same time. “All you have to do is say yes, Frank.”

There’s a door. There’s a door opening up for him, a light at the end of the tunnel that isn’t an oncoming train. How could he not say yes to Sarif’s offer? He would sell his soul to the devil if that could get him out of here, and signing a contract with a billion-dollar company seems to good to be true.

Frank takes a deep breath. “And where’s the catch?”

Sarif shrugs. “Why does there have to be a catch?”

“If things seem to good to be true they usually are,” Frank replies, his heart still racing. 

“Well, anyone should be lucky once in a while, don’t they?” Sarif shrugs, and the shining, grey finger taps another rhythm on the scratched, worn wooden surface. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I want nothing more than get out of here,” Frank replies, because he does, he really does, but there has to be a catch here, there has to be. “Just the thought of exchanging one cage for another isn’t very appealing.”

“Depends on how you define cage, I guess,” Sarif gives back dismissively. “But that’s not my point, Frank. I’m making you an offer. If you take it or not is up to you. And neither can I force you to sign that contract once you’re out of here. But if I were you I’d carefully consider my options.”

“And if I decide won’t do that after all, once I’m out, what then?” He needs to know the catch. He has to know.

Sarif shrugs. “I’m not going to throw you back into the pen if that’s what you’re thinking. And I can’t and do not want to force you to sign that contract. I’m offering you a chance here, Frank, I don’t want to own you. Loyalty is earned, not bought.”

But what was the point in trying to think of a catch? It would get him out of here. It would net him a job. No blackhat work, no risking prison again. Who the fuck should care if there is a leash involved? Exchanging one cage for another, my ass. Any cage is better than this one. 

“I’d be an idiot if I say no to that,” Frank replies then, feels a crooked smile appear on his face. “I’d sell my soul to the devil to get me out of here.”

“Well, I hope I won’t turn out to be a devil to you, Frank. I’m glad to have you on my side of the firewall.” Then Sarif nods at him. “We’re going to set things in motion as soon as we’re out of here. I can’t promise you tomorrow, or the day after. But you’re not going to spend another week in this place.”

Sarif nods, smiles, and hangs up. The guard behind Frank takes his earpiece out – of course he was logged in, Frank had only managed to forget about him – and takes Frank by the shoulder and leads him back towards the door. 

“Some people have more luck than they deserve,” the guard mutters, voice low and threatening. 

Frank shrugs, and keeps his mouth shut. He is not going to jinx this in any way. 

Back in the courtyard several men surround him, demand to know who it was. 

Frank shrugs again. “The guy whose company I tried to hack into. He wanted to look at the loser who almost got him fucked over.”

And that wasn’t a lie, was it? He didn’t have to mention the whole truth. 

When Frank kneels down on the tiled floor again during shower time the next day, Carl just kicks his ass and doesn’t touch him again. Frank is hard pressed not to smile. _Keep your head down, let them think they broke you_ , he keeps telling himself. The muzzled animal is tearing at its leash, and Frank tells it to bide its time, just a little longer. 

Tuesday sees Sarif and his lawyer back in the visitor lounge of the prison, with some paperwork to sign, but not a contract, of course. Frank feels dizzy, strangely weightless, and a part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He passes the courtyard one last time after that. In an hour or so, he’ll be called to the gate. 

But he has to do something first. 

He strides across the courtyard, homing in on Jonas with the air of someone who won’t be stopped. 

Jonas visibly tries not to cringe, and fails. “Frank, I…”

“What?” Frank crosses his arms. “Is there something you’d need to feel ashamed or sorry about?”

Jason swallows. “Please, Frank… I’m sorry. I was… I was afraid.”

“And I wasn’t!?” Frank drops his arms. “I was afraid twenty-four-fucking-seven! Because I was alone! I got fucked in the ass, and fucked in the mouth, because I had no one on my side! And you? You stood there and watched it happen!” 

Frank crosses his arms again because his hands are shaking. _Show no weakness._

“You have buddies here, Jonas. Your buddy over there, I don’t care if you let him fuck you for protection or not, but I know this one thing: He’s got say, and I’m pretty sure he asked you, that first time we saw each other here, if you want me on your side. Didn’t he?”

Jonas doesn’t reply, has a wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlight stare. 

“I thought as much.” Frank exhales a long huff of breath through his nose. “One word, Jonas. One word from you, and I wouldn’t have had my teeth knocked out. I wouldn’t have been fucked in the ass until I’m bleeding. One word, Jonas!” His voice rises too high, but he doesn’t care. “One fucking word!”

“Frank… I’m sorry…” It is a whimper, a pathetic thing. “I was scared…”

“Scared?” Frank spits at him. “Did you have your food stolen? Or your blanket? Did you got your mouth and your ass fucked all the time? Did you!?”

Jonas swallows, can’t meet his eyes. 

“Remember when you told me we’re in this together?” Frank is almost yelling, and it still hurts, thinking about this. It should stop hurting already. But this… this goes too deep. “Remember when you told me we’d always stick together? Remember that… Spider?”

“Frank, I’m so sorry!” Jonas looks at him, tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry! I know I fucked up! I’m sorry!”

“Fat load of good that does me,” Frank replies, voice dripping with venom. “But it doesn’t concern me any more, one way or another. Sarif was here, you know? But not to gloat at me. He offered to bail me out, take this back to court, get the charges dropped, maybe. He wants me on his side, he’s offering me a contract. Defend the firewall, because I found the weakest point. How is that?”

And now it comes, the part Frank is so looking forward to. The satisfaction is a living, vicious thing, writhing on his tongue. Like a snake, fangs dripping with venom. He knows it’s poisonous, steeps his whole being in bitterness, but the feeling of triumph is stronger. And he doesn’t even have to lie.

“And by the way, he asked me if I thought he could use someone with your skills as well.”

He sees the hope in Jonas’ eyes. He knows he shouldn’t take so much vicious satisfaction. But he does. He thinks of every time he was fucked, of every meal stolen, every night spent shivering with cold. 

“I told him yes,” and he enjoys the light of hope burning brighter, “but I also told him that I have reason to question your loyalty. We can’t risk someone who turns tail the moment things get rough.”

With that, he turns around, ignores the sob. Jonas is calling his name, whimpering it, sobbing it; it shouldn’t give him this kind of satisfaction, but it does. Maybe this place turned him into a vindictive asshole, but it could have been worse. If that’s all, he’ll gladly take it. Being soft and friendly doesn’t get you anywhere, anyway.

The guard at the courtyard door escorts him out, and down the corridor that swallowed him on his way into this place. 

He is handed a box with his clothes and the white, sealed plastic bags with his other belongings. He has signed for all of it, including the amount of credits in his wallet. He is not surprised at all that the form says there weren’t any credits. He gets dressed, puts on the leather bracelet, shoves his dead phone and the empty wallet into his pockets.

“I hope your kids enjoy the presents you bought from the stolen money,” he says to the guard on clerk duty. 

“Fuck you, you’re a criminal, don’t talk to me like that.”

“And stealing other people’s credits doesn’t make you one?” Frank buckles his belt. “Whatever. Choke on it.”

Just a few more steps after being cuffed again, which isn't really necessary but Frank guesses the guards enjoy their hold as long as they can. And then there is the gate, and it opens before him, and the guard unlocks his cuffs. 

Rubbing his wrists Frank steps through the gate. He takes one last look back as it closes. A deep breath, and he turns away from the thick wall of iron slowly rolling shut. 

“Frank!”

Sarif is waiting for him. 

Frank looks around, however. He’s out. He is free. He’s been through four weeks of living hell on earth. But he emerged on the other side, mostly intact. 

_No tears. No fucking tears. Don’t be a bloody pansy._

Sarif has reached his side. “Ready to get out of here?”

“Never been so ready before,” Frank replies with a wry grin. “Where to?”

“Detroit,” Sarif replies. “But don’t worry, I’m here to give you a ride.”

“Uh…” That is unexpected.

What’s even more unexpected it that it’s a chopper. Frank didn’t think it would be a normal car or a taxi, more a stretch limo or something. But there isn’t a car in sight, instead there’s a fucking chopper. 

He boards the VTOL with apprehension. He never liked flying, but this bird will get him out of here. Far, far away from here. 

_Yeah, and into what life, exactly?_

“Frank?”

Frank looks at Sarif again. 

“You’re still looking a little glum.”

“Glum… is the wrong word,” Frank said after a moment. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been happier to get out of a place. But… I’m absolutely broke right now. I can’t imagine my parents took care of my things, so I don’t have a place to live, nothing. All I have is the clothes on my back and a dead phone without charger. Had a few hundred credits in my wallet, but they mysteriously disappeared, and have also mysteriously never appeared in the paperwork.”

“I see,” Sarif says, voice darkening. “Well, I may have gotten a little ahead of myself, but things aren’t looking as dark as you think.” Then he smiles again. “I had a look at you, Frank. A close one, so knew right from the start that you’d be perfect for the job where other people failed. I pulled a few strings, you see. Took care of your things. They’re all in a storage unit, neatly packed up, even those weird ancient computer things.”

Frank’s throat runs dry. “Everything?” he croaks.

“Everything.” There’s that fatherly, benevolent smile again. “Even your bike.”

If Sarif would ask Frank to kiss his feet, he’d throw himself down without a second’s hesitation. “Really?” His voice is rough. “My bike?”

“That’s what I said.”

Frank’s thoughts stumble into two directions. Sarif is buying him, that much is clear. A man like him would never spend so much money on a fixed idea, and Frank couldn’t really believe him when he said he would just let Frank go if he doesn’t want to sign a contract. The other part of him, it doesn’t care. His things, his valuables, his bike. Sarif gave it all back to him. 

So maybe he is buying Frank. But he was right in that he could not buy Frank’s loyalty. Loyalty is something other than feeling indebted. The line is a little blurry here, and Frank still doesn’t feel as if he can trust Sarif completely. He wants to. He really does. 

“Now, I know I assumed a lot, acting as if you’d sign the contract and everything, but as I said, I looked at your options. And frankly, there didn’t seem to be a lot. Not many people would take you, with only a high school degree and a criminal record.”

That is, of course, so true that it hurts. “And you thought this is my best bet.”

“It isn’t?” Sarif crosses his arms. 

“It is,” Frank replies, because it is. “It’s a better chance than I deserve.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance, Frank.”

“So I better not blow it, right?” Frank feels a wry smile tug at his lips, but he meets Sarif’s eyes. 

Sarif’s answering smile is honest. “Good! I’ll call Athene to book you into a hotel until you find a place to live. I think she’s already stated looking through listings of affordable apartments. All you need to do is call a few people for viewings.”

“Can I borrow a phone charger?” Frank asks, leaning back into the seat. “Mine hasn’t been plugged in during the last four weeks.”

“We’ll get everything sorted.” Sarif is still smiling, that fatherly, benevolent smile that Frank wants to trust, but can’t, not quite, not yet. 

“Isn’t that, you know…” Frank shrugged, palms up, “a bit much, for someone who hasn’t even signed your contract yet?”

“But you’re going to, aren’t you?” Sarif shook his head with a smile. “I care about my people, Frank.”

Loyalty isn’t bought, it’s earned.

Somehow he still feels as if Sarif is only buying him. But maybe he really means what he says. He really cares about his people. Frank would put up with a lot less than a benevolent boss. Sarif might have him in his pocket, but it was better than being in jail.

There’s a lurch as the chopper leaves the ground, and Frank looks out of the small window, catches one last glimpse of the prison, of the yard, of a few small, orange specks. He imagines Jonas looking up, watching the chopper disappear, and maybe he’ll think about loyalty during the next five years.

Frank has never been to Detroit. Now he’s on his way there, to start a completely new life from scratch. 

A female voice sounds through the intercom. _“ETA in one hour, thirteen minutes, boss.”_

“Good.” Sarif leans back and crosses his arms. “Take us home, Faridah.”


	5. Chapter 5

Frank stares out of the window and wonders why he is so fucking drowsy, and then he realises it’s the first time in four weeks that he isn’t freezing. He almost nods off a few times. 

“Frank?”

He blinks, forces himself awake.

“Guess you’re a little tired.” Sarif smiles, and Frank wants to belief it’s honest concern.

“Yes, my cellmate wasn’t willing to give me back my blanket, so most of the time I was freezing too much to sleep.”

The smile is instantly replaced with a frown. “And the guards?”

“The guards?” Frank scoffs. “They get off on watching the inmates putting each other down.”

“Not literally, do they?” Sarif’s voice is low.

Frank can’t quite meet his eyes. “Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. Should he really drop all of that at Sarif’s feet?

“Frank?” Sarif leans forward. “You’re looking very troubled right now. What happened to you in that place?”

Frank shakes his head with a mirthless chuckle. “Ever heard a prison shower joke before?”

Sarif looks at him, and after a second, his face goes dark. “I see,” is all he says. “And the guards let that happen.”

“The one time I saw one after… after it happened, he was pitching a tent.”

“He was what?”

“Pitching… he had an erection that he didn’t even try to hide.” Frank closes his eyes, but fighting the memory was fruitless. 

“I know what that means, Frank. I just wasn’t able to imagine someone could be so depraved.”

Frank can only shrug. 

There’s a long moment of silence. 

“Okay, here’s what we do,” Sarif says then, and his voice is surprisingly, unexpectedly gentle. “We’ll get you checked up at a clinic. Full treatment for any possible STDs. And then, I suggest, you should spend a few sessions with a trauma counselor.”

“A what?” Frank opens his eyes again. “What is talking to a shrink going to change?”

“Change, nothing.” Sarif’s smile is faint. “But maybe it’ll help you deal with the memories. I’m not a professional, but it wouldn’t surprise me if you’ll end up with some kind of PTSD after this.”

Frank would have associated that with soldiers coming home from a war zone. But the truth is, if he would ever read the story of someone who had been put through what he went through... he doesn’t see the point to deny anything, so he just nods. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t have nightmares. And if talking to a shrink would help him cope, he would talk to a shrink.

“Frank?”

Frank wasn’t aware he had closed his eyes, but he opens them now to see Sarif holding out a key card to him. 

“To the storage locker with your stuff.”

Frank takes it, and then meets Sarif’s eyes. “What if I don’t want to sign that contract after all?” Still not ready to trust, still looking for a catch. Almost as if some sort of paranoia was a new trait of his, courtesy of the last four weeks and the events preceding them.

Sarif slowly tilts his head. “Then you’ll go on your merry way after the week in the hotel is up. I’m not going to drop you back into the pen, I already said that much.”

Frank slowly slips the key card into the inner pocket of his jacket. “You’d just… let me go? After bailing me out and everything?”

“Sometimes an investment doesn’t work out,” Sarif says with a shrug that looks casual, but his eyes on Frank are like a hawk’s. “I told you I’m not buying you. I’m offering a helping hand, hoping you’ll take it.”

“It’s a very generous hand.” Frank presses his lips together.

“I want you on the team, Frank, and I care about my people. We’ve been over this. My people take care of my business, and I take care of my people.” Then Sarif uncrosses his arms, and leans forward. “So?” He holds out his right arm. 

Frank hesitates for one last second, and then meets Sarif’s hand with his own. His fingers clasp around cool metal as they shake hands. “Thanks.” And with a small, crooked smile, he adds, “boss.”

The last word echoes in his mind. 

What also echoes in his mind are his own great words from two or so years ago: _I’ll never take orders from anyone._

It doesn’t feel nearly as bad as he had always thought it would. Quite the contrary, actually, considering his options.

“And now,” Sarif says as they both lean back, “let’s talk about augmentations.”

A cold knot settles in Frank’s stomach and he finds himself staring at Sarif’s right arm. He does not want to have any of his limbs cut off, thank you very much. So he finally found the catch he was waiting for.

“Not like that, don’t worry!” The amusement is audible. “Unless you want it, though.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Frank replies, and forces himself to look away from the metal arm. 

“Suit yourself. But what I was talking about are cranial implants. There are several we can supplement your brain with, hacking augments, and similar things.”

Frank lifts both eyebrows. “Hacking. You know what happened to me last time that went wrong?”

“The point of these augmentations is that it won’t go wrong anymore,” Sarif replies, almost cheerfully. “Apart from that, if you’re on the clock when you’re doing it, then it’s me who’s taking the heat if something goes wrong. I’m not throwing my people to the wolves.”

“So you…” Frank resists the urge to touch the side of his head. He still hasn’t kicked the nervous habit of trying to brush a strand of hair behind his ear, despite there being no hair anymore. “So you’re going to put some electronic modules into my brain?”

“It’s perfectly safe, Frank. And you’re going to enjoy the difference. They’ll make you better at your job!”

Frank thinks back, thinks of being shorn like a sheep, the first cold night in his bunk, all the times he had to use the toilet with a wider audience; he thinks of being cold, hungry and afraid. He thinks of Carl, and his ugly mug and greasy dick. For probably the four-hundredth time his tongue probes the gap in his teeth. 

He thinks of his vintage computers, his books, and e-books, his collection of vintage games that Steam would only laugh at if it ever heard of them. Small things, like his favourite T-shirt. 

And he thinks of his bike. 

“Okay,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll be wanting to do the best job I can.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Sarif says, genuinely pleased. “You won’t want to be without them again. And don’t worry, when you get the augmentation as part of your job at Sarif Industries, the company covers the neuropozyne.”

That’s… something, at least. The truth is, Frank doesn’t want any electronics in his head. Anything can be hacked, cerebral augmentations included, although it admittedly is one of the hardest things to do. But the other truth is that he does want to do the best job he can. He isn’t quite ready to trust Sarif on all that, but this is the best thing that could have happened to him.

He is not going to fuck this up. And if having some doctors rummaging around in his head and wiring things to his brain is part of the deal, well. There’s a price for everything, and having a few modules in his brain feels like a really ridiculous price for four years and eleven months of jail. And since he won’t have to pay for the augmentations, not even the neuropozyne, the better. 

_“ETA five minutes, boss!”_

“Right!” Sarif rubs his hands. “Do you want to sign the paperwork right now, or would you want to check into the hotel first?”

Frank takes a deep breath, exhales it with puffed cheeks. “Since I’d need some stuff from that locker before I can possibly check into any hotel I might as well sort the paperwork now.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have. Sarif Industries is steel and glass, clean, straight lines, white and silver and red. For an office building, almost ethereal, or maybe that’s only the contrast: Frank with his stained, shoddy jeans, converse that are about to fall apart, and a threadbare hoodie. At least he doesn’t add greasy hair to the whole image. 

“Maybe I should have checked into the hotel first and taken a shower,” he mutters, and stays as far away from Sarif in the elevator as he can. 

“Don’t worry about that, Frank.”

Frank does worry, but as long as Sarif doesn’t complain, he feels like he should be fine.

* * *

Frank has a very emotional reunion with his bike, as well as his other things. He has believed all of this lost, gone, trashed, sold, forever out of reach. But nothing is. It is all still there. 

With Athene’s help – he took a shower before he saw her, and put on clean clothes even if those aren’t of any higher quality – he finds an apartment within the second week in Detroit.

Now he closes the door behind him, having carried the last box inside, and takes a long look around. 

He doesn’t need to unpack anything else for tonight. He found towels, his clothes, toiletries, and everything else can wait until tomorrow.

Frank steps into the shower, trying to avoid looking at himself. He doesn’t want this half-starved, bruised and battered thing to be his mirror image. He isn’t sure if he cries. His eyes are burning as he stands under the hot spray of the shower, but he can pretend he isn’t because there is enough water to wash any tears instantly away again. He remains there until the hot water runs out.

After toweling dry he falls into the bed. 

He has a blanket. The mattress isn’t hard and lumpy. He even has a soft and comfortable pillow.

“Stop bawling Pritchard, you stupid pansy.” He curls up under the blanket, unable to take that order from himself. “Stop crying, you idiot.”

He cried the first night in the hotel, the first night in weeks he didn’t have to freeze. And then, with all the exhaustion catching up with him, he had slept like the dead.

Frank switches off the light, and takes a few deep breaths. Safe. He’s safe. He is safe. And he will never end up in a place like that again.

A few more days he wakes up at roll call time before his body forgets. Other things it doesn’t forget, can’t forget, but Frank listens to Sarif and sees a shrink about that. It helps, somewhat. Time will take care of some of the horror that still lingers in his bones and his mind, and the rest is just another scar that Frank carried out of that place.

* * *

Frank musters the side of his head in the mirror with a frown. He doesn’t like the scars and the silver bolts in his skin, but he can and will grow out his hair again, and no one, himself included, will ever see them again. At least he didn’t have to lose any hair for this surgery, since it was gone already. 

Again, he looks as if Carl had a field day with him, face still a little swollen and bruised due to the nose job Sarif had generously added to the surgery plans. They even put an implant into the gap in his teeth. He got a full STD treatment and is squeaky clean now. Everything that could be fixed, has been fixed. Plus a few upgrades inside his skull.

The first weeks after the surgery were a nightmare. There were things in his brain, foreign objects that messed with his perception, his ability to communicate, and he experienced headaches on the levels of pain to agony. These bouts of pain were followed by periods of complete disorientation. Frank was scared, still is, a little at times, no matter how much the doctors assured him the adjustment period for cerebral implants can be difficult. 

So now he gets discharged weeks after surgery, when he is finally able to rely on his motoric skills again. It’s snowing outside; Detroit is dark and gloomy and cold, and Sarif dropped ‘a little gift’ off in his room earlier that day. It’s a black, knitted beanie, because the scar and the bolts shouldn’t get too cold; it would cause him a headache, and he doesn’t have enough hair yet that would cover and protect them. Frank dresses, and puts on the beanie. It has the Sarif Industries logo embroidered onto the front in silver thread. 

All his doubts and hesitations aside, Frank would have taken that logo as a stamp to his forehead if that had gotten him out of jail. He got through that, he will get through this. A last look into the mirror, and Frank grabs his bag and leaves, and arrives at his home without an incident.

It takes him the better part of three months until he trusts himself around a computer again. 

He starts practicing at home. After the surgery he’s on sick leave, and he starts to worry about Sarif’s disposition towards his investment. Four months into employment, and Frank hasn’t spent a single day at work yet. 

He voices these concerns to Sarif during a call. They have those on a regular basis, to get Frank used to the infolink. Sarif assures him he knew what he was doing, and he says he knows that some things take time. 

Another month, and Frank has his first day at Sarif Industries. 

He is never going to become a slick suit, and so he still wears clothes that don't really adhere to the office dress code. Sarif doesn't seem to care. He would, of course, start wearing suits if he has to. But he is glad that he doesn’t.

It takes him a few days to get acclimatised to the surroundings and to make himself familiar with the system. And slowly, he begins to discover the potential of the augmentations. Sarif was right, after all. A few months into this job, and he can’t imagine how he has ever been content doing this kind of work without them. 

On his watch Sarif Industries is the target of three hacker attacks. Frank wipes them from the map as casually as he would wipe crumbs from a table. 

Hunting viruses in the system and getting rid of hackers has nothing of the thrill he was used to, back then. But Frank has had enough thrill, enough to last him three lifetimes. 

Frank’s life falls into a slow, easy rhythm of work and spare time, though the former always outweighs the latter. He doesn’t do well when he’s idle, and there’s always something to take care of in the system. Idiotic people who download a virus, can’t remember where they saved a file, or forget their passwords. And real problems, like obliterating malware, and getting rid of hacker attacks.

Frank has no lingering doubts anymore that he is finally on the right side of a company firewall.

* * *

It’s his first summer in Detroit, and with the majority of the staff on break, things are slow and calm. Frank has started training a few members of the IT support staff in proper cybersecurity, and hopes that Sarif Industries can survive a few days without him because there is something he has to do. 

He throws some underwear and a toothbrush into his backpack, gears up, and with his helmet under his arm heads for the parking garage of his apartment building. He stops at the first store he passes and buys a thermos cup that he also drops into the backpack, and then he mounts his bike again and gets on the road, hits the I-80 and heads west. 

One night in a motel and a few hours more on the road later he rounds San Pablo bay, gets himself a coffee at a gas station that he fills into the thermos mug. 

An hour later he parks the bike, and after looking at the map on his phone for a while he heads down the path to Kirby Cove beach. He puts his helmet down onto a rock and runs his fingers through his hair, just long enough now to be messed up by wearing one. 

Frank walks up and down at the waterline until he finds a nice little stone, smooth and with a white, shiny stripe running across one side. He picks that up, turns towards the skyline of San Francisco, and throws the stone into the water of the Golden Gate as far as he can. 

Then he sits down in the sand and takes a sip of coffee, his face in the breeze. The wind ruffles his hair, and dries the tears on his cheeks.

* * *

Frank feels an unexpected kind of joy the first time his hair is long enough for a ponytail, but he has decided against dyeing it again. He also doesn’t put his ear studs back in. He still doesn’t adhere to office dress code, and Sarif still doesn’t care because he does a damn good job, just as he said he would. But some things should stay in the past. 

The nuclear snake has shed his skin and grown up, Frank thinks with a wry grin; no longer as pretty and shiny, but more deadly than ever before.

* * *

Two years pass before Frank decides to try dating again, but he quickly gives up on that. Who wants that kind of commitment when you don’t know if you can trust anyone in a pinch, whatever that pinch might be? He doesn’t need another drama like the one with Jason. 

His dates complain about that lack of commitment, of trust, and especially about the sarcasm he uses when they criticise him. But that’s how it is now. His time in prison has left him with some sharp, jagged edges, he didn’t escape that place entirely intact. So maybe he isn’t the easiest person to be around now, but is it his fault he can’t trust anyone anymore? On the other hand, if you’re alone, then no one can use you, or hurt you, or drop you like a hot potato. 

He sticks to one-night stands, no strings attached. Maybe a few nights, if it was really good. Never more. There isn’t a point. This is way more fun anyway.

* * *

Frank gets as drunk as a sailor on the seventh of August 2025. It is the day he would have been released from prison, had he served his full sentence. Jonas would be out too, if he hadn’t met the mercy of the system for good behaviour. Not that Frank cares about him. He really doesn't. He keeps thinking back, some faint traces of pain still lingering when he remembers how good things were back then, and how they had ended.

After that night, Frank hardly thinks of Jonas anymore. He doesn’t even have to force himself. But he knows now where his loyalties lie; if At0mic Sp1der would ever appear on his radar here, he wouldn’t hesitate a second to obliterate him.

* * *

Frank takes care of himself in ways he has never thought of before. He doesn’t live like a bachelor nerd like he used to, surrounded by dirty laundry and empty take out containers. He’s worth more than that. It’s so easy, after the conditions he had to live in, if only for four weeks, to keep his little nest clean and tidy and comfortable. Thinking back to the prison food he buys cookbooks, and teaches himself to cook. Not that he eats a lot, he never has, and he will always be on the lean and wiry side. But if he never has to touch a bowl of porridge again it will be too soon. 

The thing with the home cooking doesn’t last that long, unsurprisingly, but he still doesn’t degenerate into his former self in terms of cleanliness and tidiness. 

His office is a mess, but it’s his mess, and it’s an organised chaos made of notes and books and paperwork, not dirt and trash. And the VR bike, of course, that Frank tinkers with when he’s off the clock. He’s still surprised that Sarif said yes to his request, but on the other hand, Frank never hesitates when he has to pull an emergency night shift or even two, and rarely leaves his office without overtime. Sarif just told him he’d trust Frank wouldn’t use his working hours for it, and since Frank has no intention whatsoever of breaking that trust, he never does.

But then, seven years after his turn of fortune, fate decides to shit into his shoe, again.

He has told Sarif time and again they need on-side security. Has written one report after another. And then, when Sarif finally says yes?

He hires a cop. 

An Ex-cop. But still a cop. Still one of those cruel, sadistic bullies who get off on the suffering and humiliation of other people. And wearing a black leather coat instead of a badge doesn’t make him any less of an asshole. 

And now Sarif is forcing him to work together with a fucking cop. 

_He’s not that bad, Frank, give him a chance_ , Sarif said. 

Frank looks at Jensen, and all he sees are cold, cruel eyes watching him as he’s being fucked on a hard, wet floor made of cracked, yellow tiles. Maybe he’s being unreasonable here, a little bit. Another part doesn’t care. Once a cop, always a cop. 

And then life suddenly collapses around them like a giant shit soufflé. Dozens of people are gone, among them their top scientists, and Jensen ends up more dead than alive in the clinic after absolutely failing to save anyone. 

But even that doesn’t get Jensen out of his hair. Despite Jensen being a total failure Sarif just shoves as many augmentations into him as he can, and here he is, back in Frank’s life, annoying seven different kinds of crap out of him, as usual. 

Still better than jail. But he had hoped he would never have to see another cop from up close again. And while Sarif might have ordered Frank to get familiar with Jensen’s augmentations and their basic maintenance, it doesn’t mean he has to pretend he cares.

“About time! What happened? Did you get stuck in an air duct on the way over?”


End file.
